


His Eyes

by lustfulpasiphae (miraphora)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Evelyn "B" Trevelyan - Freeform, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2019-09-15 08:54:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16930233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraphora/pseuds/lustfulpasiphae
Summary: Maker, he loved her hands.





	His Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mirabai0821](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirabai0821/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Bold in Deed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5027695) by [Mirabai0821](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirabai0821/pseuds/Mirabai0821). 



> A little gift for @mirabai0821. Evelyn B Trevelyan is hers, and you can find her Heraldry Series elsewhere on AO3. Tell me if I have sung to your approval. :)

It was rare for Cullen to be seated near the practice grounds within the upper bailey of Skyhold. Normally, he stalked, he prowled, he instructed, whether in amidst his men or standing at the sidelines, his hands clasped on his pommel, his expression fierce.

But today there was a breeze, and the sky was clear, the sun bright. And his ladylove had her bow in her hands.

Maker, he loved her hands.

Hands that held his, earthy rich fingers twined around his pale sword-roughened knuckles; hands that lay on his body, giving comfort or pleasure; hands that could draw a 60 pound bow and take down a wild boar; hands that could trace the constellations of his scars and raise beauty and tenderness from ashes of memory. Hands that could guide an arrow into the hairsbreadth space between one heartbeat and the next, splitting hairs and inches and finding a target unerring. Had done. Would again.

_Maker, guide her hands._

He watched the way focus flowed through her body, from the cant of her head, her neck—a stray vine of her hair escaping from the spider-bun to lay along the warm brown of her skin, the sleek gathering of strength in her shoulders and biceps, exposed by the leather vest, the graceful line of her back, Maker the taut line of muscle flowing from the curve of her ass down along her generous thighs… Her body was an instrument, an orchestra, an entire symphony concentrated into the focus that honed along the length of her arrow.

He watched her ribs expand with breath, watched her loose the arrow into her exhale.

Watched the slight grimace writhe across her face when the steel blade of the arrow went home left of center.

Watched her raise her hand, stare at it with slight resignation and betrayal, rubbing her fingertips together, flexing her hand, her fingers, stretching and working sinew and joint.

_Maker, help her to trust her strength._

He knew what she was feeling, if not precisely why. The tingling fingertips, the slight deadening of sensation, the uncertainty that it lent to touch, the mind deceived by a lack of input, struggling to give proper instruction to the body. It didn’t trouble him as much with a sword, but he knew the fine-tuned precision required for the bow—remembered her strong, lovely arms around him, her voice teasing and taunting and encouraging all at once as she commented on his own bow skills, the spice and citrus scent of her curling around him…

He believed in his marrow that she would make a full recovery—and it wasn’t only faith in Dorian’s healing, and he had that, despite the circumstances that still made his stomach writhe with discomfort at times. He believed in her strength. Believed in her determination. Believed that whatever the Maker did not give, she would take, with eager hands and heart—her pleasure, their future, the safety of her world and all the loved ones in her orbit.

He believed in her.

There was no prayer that could express that, save through the gravest sacrilege. She was his Andraste.

He watched her draw again, watched the symphony of her body sing, a song that drowned any lesser croon of lyrium and trauma, watched her loose the arrow.

Watched the blade of the arrow strike deep into the heart of her target, as surely as her love struck him, fixed him, immutable—

_For I walk only where you would bid me._

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a little fluff, and also something about peripheral neuropathy. It’s something that stroke survivors experience--and also addicts suffering from withdrawal. So, if this is set anywhere in the Heraldry series, it’s somewhere after the blood magic arc, during B’s recovery.


End file.
